


Jason Rises

by hauntedlittledoll



Series: Robin Arise Project [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Brain Damage, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin never truly dies.</p>
<p>A collection of fix-it prompt fills in honor of Robin 2.0 . . . Jason Todd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Til We Find Our Place on the Path Unwinding

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 999
> 
> Title Credit: Walt Disney’s The Lion King
> 
> Prompt: Written for supernova2395 – “What if it’s Damian who finds Jason, and he knows it’s Jason because Ra’s/Talia showed him pictures and he feels like it’s his duty/part of his honour to care for Jason and he gets better gradually with the help of special ancient techniques he was taught… and then he takes him back to Bruce as a peace offering who hugs him a lot and Jason joins back into the mission because Damian helped him find peace?”

The little boy found himself in another dead-end alleyway and stomped his foot.  It seemed that Gotham was a labyrinth of twisting passages and dead-ends.  How was Damian supposed to find his Father when the man’s city was _so big?_

Damian had not run away from England to wander throughout Gotham for hours on end.  He had come because he wanted to be trained by the only man worthy of Damian’s time.  His father was supposed to be the World’s Greatest Detective; how long could it take the man to find one boy in his own city?

Damian scowled at a nearby pile of rubbish, and checked his map once more, but unfortunately, Damian had already tarried too long.  The mouth of the alleyway was blocked by several large men.

Damian was a firm believer in preemptive measures.  The first threat against his person ended with his knife in the man’s forehead.  Usually upon making such a point, Damian’s enemies fled.  Gotham’s nightlife, however, was a different breed than his mother’s minions.  They took Damian’s warning as a _challenge_.

At the sight of firearms, Damian tensed.  There was _nothing_ in the alley to provide suitable shelter, and Damian had no body armor.  For a moment, Damian feared that his very first mission would end in failure.

Luckily for the little boy, fate intervened on his behalf.

At the appearance of firearms, what Damian had thought to be only a pile of rubbish unfolded into a person.  Said-person knocked Damian to the ground, drawing the thugs’ fire by running straight at them.  No bullets connected during this suicidal dash, but his rescuer suddenly darted to the side, sprinted a few feet up the brick wall, flipped off, and landed behind the leader.  A spin kick took out the nearest henchman’s weapon as the boy—and it was a boy scarcely a decade older than Damian—ripped the leader’s pistol from his hands.  Damian watched the older boy’s body recoil from a bullet to the shoulder, and _keep going_.

Three sharp cracks later and the men were on the ground.  The boy stood still above them all, pistol dangling from his lax grip.

Damian cautiously pushed himself off the ground.  The boy didn’t move.  Damian warily approached and took the gun from his rescuer.  There was still no response, no effort to keep the weapon, or deny Damian’s right to possess it.

Damian checked the chamber, and finding the weapon to still have some use, Damian tucked it into the back of his trousers.  Then he turned his attention once more to his rescuer.  Damian wasn’t used to being ignored.  He tugged hard on the boy’s filthy coat, and that simple action gained the older boy’s abrupt awareness.

Hands seized Damian under the arms and hefted the child-assassin.  Pinned to his rescuer’s chest, Damian could not properly protest the boy’s rapid flight from the alley or the easy way that the boy scaled a nearby fire-escape despite his injury.

He drew the line at allowing the older boy to leap from rooftop to rooftop with Damian’s person over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Put me _down_ at once,” he demanded, suffering whiplash when his rescuer complied immediately.  The older boy crouched beside him, running hands over Damian’s frame in a methodical check for injury—which was absolutely ridiculous because it was the other boy who was bleeding all over the place.  “I am fine,” Damian insisted, squirming free and brushing himself off.

Satisfied that prolonged contact with humanity had not allowed anything more than honest dirt to be rubbed off, Damian glanced up at his rescuer with a scathing comment that died upon his lips.  The boy had an absent sort of expression, his limbs hanging like those of a puppet, but there was something … _familiar_ about his fighting style.

Damian frowned, dug in his pocket for a handkerchief, and scrubbed at his rescuer’s filthy face a moment.  The older boy let him, showing a brief flicker of bemusement.  Damian stared at the soft freckles he unearthed, and the easy twist of lips that revealed a missing tooth.

“Robin?” he breathed.

Grandfather had brought pictures and videos of the second Robin to train Damian.  Grandfather had teased Damian, calling the young vigilante Damian’s competition right up until Robin had been killed by the Joker in Ethiopia.  Now that title belonged to the newest Robin on the rare occasions when Grandfather bothered to visit Damian at all.

“Father sent you, didn’t he?” Damian whispered.  “He sent you to _protect me_.  I thought you were dead, but you’re not dead—just _broken_.”

Robin was silent.

“I can fix that,” Damian suggested carefully.  “I can fix anything, and it would be the honourable thing to do … a show of gratitude for your assistance with those fools.  I did not need the help, of course, but it was kind of you to offer.”

It would make Father _happy_.  The new Robin was a poor replacement for Damian’s rescuer; the young assassin didn’t like the new Robin or Grandfather’s fascination at all.  Surely, Father would be pleased with the return of his young partner and reward Damian for a job well-done.  Surely, Father would welcome them both home …

* * *

 

Damian reluctantly returned to his inept guardians for now.  His Robin broke the wrist of the first person to lay hands on Damian, and the minions scattered as befitting the peons of the underworld.

“This is my new bodyguard,” Damian announced.  “You will treat him as you treat me.”

His guardian was the only one who dared approach after that.  When he had first arrived, the man bore an imposing stature and little patience.  After six months in Damian’s company, his guardian had developed all manner of nervous tics.  “About your trip, young master … surely, Lady Talia doesn’t need to know?”

“No,” Damian answered decisively.  “Mother doesn’t need to be informed at all.”


	2. You Have Too Many Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 255
> 
> Title Credit: Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Episode - “Lie to Me”
> 
> Prompt: Written for takaraka – “Supergirl; Alien Tech; No. She was flying over Gotham looking for the bats, found him instead, and sneaks him into the fortress.”

There is … not shouting … coming from outside.

Not shouting—arguing.

There is arguing just outside the strange structure.  Two voices, one male and one female, having an almost cordial disagreement although there is a note of defensiveness to the girl’s voice.

He doesn’t like that.  Girls are kickass, but you don’t make them upset.  That’s rude, and there are rules.

_“You can’t just bring random civilians to the Fortress of Solitude, Kara.”_

_“He needs help!  You say that this place rejuvenates you …”_

_“He’s not Kryptonian, Kara.  It’s not quite the same.”_

_“Close enough, Kal-el.  Just a bath and hot meal would work wonders.”_

The latter sounds better than the first.  He doesn’t even want to think about what is in his hair after that nap in the dumpster.

He could go for a steak though.  He hasn’t had a steak in forever.

_“No, Kara.  We’ll take him back to Gotham, and drop him off at Dr. Thompkin’s clinic.  She does good work, and she’ll look after him, but we are not adopting your stray.  You can’t just bring every sad story home, Kara.  We’re not Ba—”_

The man stops abruptly upon entering the fortress.  The man is big, strong, familiar … but the man’s name is just out of reach.  The man approaches, crouching in front of him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

_“Jason.”_

That’s got meaning.  He knows that name.  He smiles.

_“Kara, go get Batman.  Right now.”_

Even better.


	3. Something a Good Deal More Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 606
> 
> Title Credit: Joss Whedon’s Serenity
> 
> Prompt: Written for actualdisneyprincessdickgrayson – “Dick Grayson, time … and hugs. Lots and lots of hugs. And of course he knows he’s Jason, he’d recognize his little brother anywhere.”

The first time Dick said his little brother’s name out loud in a year, it was barely a whisper that punched the breath out of him: “Jason.”  Then he screamed it loud enough to turn heads: “Jason!”

It didn’t turn the head that mattered though.  His little brother continued on the same path in the opposite direction, and Dick reacted the only way possible.

He gave chase.

He sprinted down a good portion of Lilac Boulevard before catching up, still calling his brother’s name with every other exhale.  Jason never slowed until Dick was close enough to reach out and grab the smaller figure by the sleeve.

“Jason,” Dick demanded, hauling the teen around and staring in awe at his little brother’s face.  “Jason,” he whispered again.

There wasn’t recognition.  No, Dick would be nursing broken bones for the manhandling if Jason didn’t recognize him … but there was no connection.  No spark.  Jason appeared startled, curious, and still a sense of blankness pervaded the countenance that Dick knew so well.

“Jason,” Dick crouched in front of the teenager easily, resting one broad hand on Jason’s shoulder.  “Little Wing, it’s Dick.”

A clumsier hand settled on Dick’s shoulder after a moment of deep concentration, and Dick’s heart broke.

He pulled Jason down into a hug.  The younger hero didn’t protest the sentimentality or shove Dick away—he just let Dick hold onto him for a few minutes until the older vigilante had pulled himself together again.

“C’mon, Jay,” Dick murmured, wrapping an arm around his little brother’s shoulders.  “Let’s get you home, kiddo.”

“Hey!”

Out of nowhere, a rotten apple core pegged Dick upside the head.  He automatically tightened his grip on Jason as he dodged the smelly shoe that followed.  A little girl standing on the nearby dumpster had her choice of projectile weapons at hand.

“You let go of him, creep!” she demanded, launching a Chinese take-out container their way.  “I’ll scream and scream and scream!”

She was putting up a good racket already, but Gothamites didn’t live long by taking an interest in others’ problems.

Dick couldn’t let go of Jason—couldn’t risk losing his little brother after all this time and having it turn out to be some kind of dream—but he raised his other hand in surrender.  The girl took the opportunity to smack him square between the eyes with an empty tin of Kitty Chow.  Dick blinked.

“You let go of him right now!”

Dick raised his voice to make it heard over hers.  “He’s my brother!”  The little girl hesitated in her assault, and Dick pressed the opportunity.  “He’s been missing …”

He had to dodge the other shoe.  Eyes narrowed, and a burnt-out light bulb held aloft, the little girl demanded: “Prove it.”

Dick cautiously worked his wallet out of his pocket in slow careful movements, thumbing one-handed through the photos for a picture of him and Jason.  It had been taken a couple years back, but they were still recognizable.

The little girl squinted at it from a distance, before waving someone else forward.  A boy about her age darted out of the shadows to inspect the photo, flashing a silent thumbs-up at his partner.  Now Dick was treated to a sunny smile:  “Sorry, Mister, but he’d go with anyone if we didn’t look out for him.”

Dick swallowed hard, pulling Jason into his side again.  “Thank you,” he whispered, repeating it at a more audible level.  “Thank you … for looking out for him.  Thanks.”

Some words just didn’t measure up to everything a person wanted them to mean.


	4. Horribly Aware of This Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 282
> 
> Title Credit: Lia Habel’s "Dearly Departed"
> 
> Prompt: Written for probablydeletethis – “Prompt: Donna Troy finds Jason. He can’t retain short term memory and his long term memories never recover, but his muscle memory is strong and still intact. She knows him and never tells anyone she found him (except her civilian husband if you give her one).”

Donna let herself into the small bedroom, and smiled at the teenager sitting quietly on his bed and listening to an old Walkman.

“Hello, Robin,” she murmured quietly.

Jason’s eyes popped open, and he ripped off the headphones as he went.  Donna returned the impulsive hug and kissed the top of the younger boy’s head, marveling in the teenager’s implicit trust.

“We can go hang out in the rec room if you’d like, she offered pleasantly.  “Watch cartoons and play chess … or …”

Jason stopped nodding agreeably with the drawn-out promise of better things.  Donna had to smile at the hopeful expression on the younger vigilante’s face.

“We could hit a few museums and get chilidogs,” she teased, waving the pale blue day pass.

Jason bounced off the bed, fist-pumping in silent jubilation as he dove after his shoes.  Donna watched bemusedly as he tied them perfectly, because of all the things for the brain damage to leave intact … double knots, combat skills, and the rules of chess were an odd combination.

“Jacket, Jay,” she reminded him gently, tapping the breast pocket of her own denim coat.  That earned her an eye-roll, but Jason obeyed, shrugging into the facility-provided windbreaker.

Donna waited for him to join her at the door, and reached out once more to smooth her friend’s rumpled curls before heading out into the world.

Jason would never be the same, but the boy-hero was getting better.  He just needed time, and Donna was willing to give that to him.

She had never kept such a secret before or since, but how could she deprive Robin of what he so sorely needed?


	5. Incorporeally Possessing a Spaceship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 909
> 
> Title Credit: Joss Whedon’s Firefly; Episode - “Objects in Space”
> 
> Prompt: Written for kiragecko – "Cass and Jason as mute ninja street kids who the Batfam eventually hear stories about."
> 
> A/N: As this ended up being written entirely from Cass’ POV, it goes at the prompt sideways. What Cass doesn’t know, is that the Batmobile was only in the area to begin with because Batman was investigating those rumors.

Her grasp of body-language is the only thing that kept her from running into the wall that was her companion.  She followed his gaze to find the subject of his sudden interest.

The Car.

She prodded the boy, but she could already tell that this would be one of his stubborn moments.  Sometimes, he was the sweetest, kindest, most easy-going soul on the planet … and sometimes, he had a will of iron.

When he planted his not-inconsiderable height and slowly-amassing bulk against her, the only way to move him would be to damage him.  She could do that, but she very rarely exercised her gifts against him.

He was strong.  She was stronger.

He could be dangerous, but she was infinitely more so.

He was a stubborn mule.

However, they were a team so she moved around him and pointed down the street in the direction of the Clocktower.  There was work there.  He shook his head, and pointed back to The Car.

"B."

That was worthy of pause.  Unlike her, he had words—meaningless syllables that made him light up on hearing, and others that made him bristle—but he so rarely used them himself that such instances should be rewarded.

"B," he repeated insistantly.

She relaxed, and allowed him to lead the way to The Car which looked even more intimidating close up.  He doesn’t seem to agree from the besotted expression on his face as he crouched and patted a tire fondly.

She yanked away sharply at that, but nothing happens.  The Car didn’t emit the awful noise that other vehicles do upon contact.  He didn’t jerk away from the object of his affection in pain the way that she has seen others react to The Car.  He just smiled up at her, and patted the tire again, and she reads his intent in the line of his body.

No, they were not going to steal the tires.  They were not stupid and they were not bad people.  She had work, and he _could_ have work if she could get him to go with her.

Stealing was wrong.  It caused others hurt and disappointment.

And it wasn’t necessary.  They didn’t need the tires.

He wouldn’t listen.

She had no idea how he managed to retrieve the necessary implements from the car itself.  He was impossible in so many ways, and she carried herself off to the curb to await the inevitiable drama that would accompany this venture.

He had done this before.  His movements were quick and sure.  The first tire was rapidly removed, and she used it as a seat while watching as he took on the second.

There was an odd pattern of behaviour in the way that he paused after every tire and checked over his shoulder with a broad, expectant grin … almost like the other teen wanted to be caught.

She accepted the offered second tire and laid it atop the first for a taller seat, but she didn’t sit down.  Not yet.  She went around the vehicle to watch him remove the third tire, deliberately placing herself in his line of sight when the ritual is repeated.

He brushed her aside impatiently, but there was no one else.

For a split second, he seemed to wilt.  She grasped his shoulder hastily.  If his interest flagged, she would have to replace the tires herself, and that skill was not one of the many that her father had taught her.  She wrapped her hand around his wrist and redirected him to the forth tire.

He set to work once more, and she carried the third tire back to the pile and perched atop it.

When the fourth tire was removed, the ritual ended with hurt and a brief show of rage.  He swung his tool into the windows, frustration and hurt warring in his expression.  The bulletproof glass of The Car held, but the strike did what all of his previous efforts did not.

The Car emitted a strange sound.  The lights and engine came to life, and a shadow settled over them briefly as something flew above.  It resolved into the Bat Man as it settled on the streets.

The Bat Man was tall.

He was almost of the same height as he threw the tool aside and flung himself at the insignia of the hero.  Words spilled forth like water over the dam, and she did not understand them.

But she knew what was being said.  She could read their emotions in the lines of their bodies.  She heard what could not be put into words.

When the Bat Man took a step back, the hero took his boy with him as the Bat Man studied her.  His boy stumbled in words as if already out of them after such a brief speech, but made the meaning clear in the grip he kept on the Bat Man’s cape.

He held out his other hand to her.

They were a team.

The Bat Man would indulge anything, she knew.  She could read the hero like the lady of the Clocktower could read books.

She smiled and took the proffered hand.

And then the Bat Man finally looked at his car and the pile of tires with a sigh and more meaningless words:

_"You just can’t make things easy, can you, Jay-lad?"_

The smile that tugged at the corner of the Bat Man’s lips said something else.


End file.
